Art High

I've had a dream before, where I am in the Musuem of Modern Art, New York: There is a particular spot, between two galleries, where I could lie on the floor, or float perhaps, to soak up the art around me. In this spot, one could turn in one direction and see one of Monet's paintings of waterlillies. In the other direction, you would find a grouping of Brancusi sculptures. To your left, colorful masses replicating the effect of light on water and flowers. To your right, almost colorless, almost mass-less, sculptures defining a shapeless spirit. One a breaking down into parts of light to see what we don't always notice; the other a distillation of beings -- bird, tree, human -- into the simplest of forms, so that we can see beyond form alone to the spirit of the thing.

The first time I saw the grouping of Brancusi works, I had walked around the corner from another gallery to be stunned by this collection of sculpture; I gasped. When I later decided to move along to other parts of the museum, I turned slowly from the work to see, through the doorway to the next gallery, the large Monet painting, its familiar blue and mauve colors, making me smile like I was seeing an old friend.

There was a tug on me from these two very different installations: the many parts to see the one, the one to see the many. Is it any wonder I have since dreamed of being able to move around these works, undisturbed, in solitude? It is a nice dream.

This week, while not dreaming, nor able to circulate freely around artwork without hinderances of security features and other museum visitors, I was able to see works by both Brancusi and Monet. A bit of an art high for me.

First, Monet, at the L'Orangerie:

These works were created for this building, designed specifically for the curved walls of the L'Orangerie. Renovations to the building, completed a few years ago, adding skylights so that the works can be seen in a subtle, diffused, natural light. There is a tangible feeling of cool and calmness in these rooms that cannot be captured by a photograph of the paintings (as if any photo could capture a painting!).





Details from the larger work:



Then, Brancusi's Atelier, at the Centre Pompidou:

Brancusi left the contents of his workshop to France, with the condition that his studio be recreated as-is. In later years, Brancusi did not sculpt, but worked on the arrangments of his works in his studio, grouping them in various ways. With the aid of photographs, his workshop has been recreated. It's unfortunate that for security reasons the studios are set behind glass, but, you can observe the entire collection as a whole without having other patrons walking amongst the sculptures, taking away from the setting.










Brancusi lived with his sculptures. Note the loft area where he slept in the photo below, as well as the golf clubs on the wall, and a guitar in the back. See second photo below for enlarged detail of back of studio.

I also like this view as you can see the entrance into the studio. It too has a roundness of form that complements Brancusi's sculpted heads.






Here is a video clip from a 1996 Charlie Rose broadcast, with the late art critic, Kirk Varnedoe, discussing Brancusi. About 8 minutes into the segment, Varnedoe discusses Brancusi's arrangments in his studio.

Perhaps later I'll post on some of my other art-viewing adventures in Paris this week.

Local, Organic, Food (Part 1)

I don't know about you, but I'm still digesting a hearty, caloric, too-high carbohydrated, Thanksgiving meal. So one would think it would be unlikely that I would again be writing about food today. But, here I am, posting about food again, even though I'm not too interested in eating much of anything now.

Late in the summer, we received word about a benefit dinner, sponsored by Slow Food Indy, for local chefs who were planning on attending the biennial Terre Madre conference in Italy. We attending two of these dinners, one at a one of our favorite restaurants (R Bistro locally owned, local foods, great chef) and one at a farm in a nearby community where dinner was served in the barn. At both of these events we were treated to wonderful, locally grown, in season food.

I think that one would have to have been living (or eating) under a rock if one were either a foodie, or environmentally oriented, not to at least have an inkling of an idea about the local foods movement. But, as a consumer, one is bombarded by terms like organic, local, natural when at the grocery store and sorting out the marketing bandwagon hype from the local movement can be slightly daunting.

I don't think that I had really taken any time to educate myself about why locally grown is a good thing until this summer. I'm not an expert, by any means, but I have learned much in the last few months. For the last several spring/summer seasons, we've frequented the local farmers' markets. There is now one within walking distance from me, although I usually buy at a larger one that is in the same area as other places I go while making the rounds for my usual Saturday morning tasks. This year, there is a Winter market that I'll try, and there is small market stand that sells local produce in season that will be open this winter. There isn't much local produce one can buy in the winter months in the Midwest, but I want to see this place survive -- and Florida oranges are Florida oranges whether I buy them here or at the big-chain market -- so I'll continue to go there.

On top of the pile of books I've started and have been meaning to complete are Barbara Kingsolver's Animal, Vegetable, Miracle and Michael Pollen's The Omnivore's Dilemma.

But, the event that I'm looking forward to most immediately, is a lecture next week by Alice Waters, chef at Berkeley's Chez Panisse, local-food, slow food guru, and originator of the Edible Schoolyard project. Waters is speaking at the Indianapolis Musuem of Art. The IMA's blog has posted a portion of an interview with Waters (here). I particularly liked what she had to say about working with artists:

The reason I’m interested in working with artists is to take food out of that ‘foody’ place and put it into the beauty of culture. Food is a universal language.

I'll be posting about the lecture soon.

Variation on 6th folder meme

Ho hum. Getting towards the end of the NaBloPoMo thing, and while not running out of ideas, certainly getting low on motivation. Looking for something quick, I'm taking this from UnrelaxedDad, the 6th folder meme.

Instructions: Go to the 6th folder on your hard drive. Post the 6th photo in that folder.

I got halfway through the assignment. Don't you think that the person who made this up liked the 6th photo in that folder? So, I figured I could pic & choose too. Besides, I could probably find a way to sort the file so that this was the 6th, but it sounds like too much work!

The 6th photo is a photo of a Monet that hangs at Musuem of Modern Art. I took it as a closeup because I was trying to capture the brushstrokes. But, if you didn't know what it was, it looks like the camera accidentally went off inside one's backpack. So, I'm posting a picture I took on the same trip (about a year ago). I like this painting very much:

The Dance, Henri Matisse

I always smile when I see this painting, not only because I like it, but also because of my reaction the first time I saw it. Although I had seen photos of this painting, I hadn't seen it before, or at least not that I can remember. It was on my first trip to MoMA after they re-opened following a major renovation project. Since I was only in New York for a few days, I was trying to stuff as much experience as I could into the trip, and was trying to take in as much of the museum as I could. Note to reader unfamiliar with MoMA: This is a really stupid idea; the museum is simply too big to see everything in all the galleries in one day, without your eyeballs and brain exploding.

My feet were getting tired and I was about to call it quits. I walked out of the gallery and thought I was headed to the escalator. I entered a stairwell. As I turned around to go back into the gallery, I saw this magnificent painting on the wall. It is very large, 12' 9 1/2" x 8' 6 1/2", but instead of overpowering you, it envelopes you with its liveliness.

When I saw the painting I remembered an episode from high school, where one of my friends who frequently worked crew in the theatre department, was asked to help with some sets at the local university's auditorium. She, of course, agreed to do so, although she knew nothing more than that they were moving some scenery drops -- and she got to get out of school early to go help. The next day she exclaimed: I got to touch a f'ing Matisse! A real Matisse! You wouldn't believe the colors. What she had been drafted to help with was to hang some drops that had been used by The Ballet Russe, and one of them had been painted by Matisse. I was jealous then, and remain a bit so now, nearly 30 years later. (Link to website about the drops here and here)

The colors of this painting grabbed me as well as its composition. It is very muted, and that gives it a dream-like quality, enhancing the floating movement of the dancers. What I didn't know at the time is that this was a study for the commissioned painting. The commissioned work is nearly identical in composition, but the colors are much different: bright red, green and blue. The color choice gives the painting a completely different feeling. You can see both paintings here.



I don't get to MoMA frequently, but when I do, I always try to walk into that stairwell to see this work. I always smile when I do.

Election Day

photo of Jasper Johns 3 Flags, 1959

GO VOTE!

Hands in the dirt and a trip to Chicago

Today was gardening day. While I only have one flat of flowers planted so far, my guys and I did a lot of shoveling of dirt today. There is something invigorating about the smell of dirt and worms on a cool, sunny Spring day.

Here are some pictures from the garden:

It's going to take more than one flat to cover this hill side, newly without ground cover because the landscapers cleared the wrong area. That's okay, though, it allows for adding some color on the wooded slope. Complements the sign too!

I found this delicate little wildflower in the woods as I was planting the begonias.

Right now, standing on my porch or walking down the driveway, is a sensory delight, with the honeysuckle in bloom. Some call this a weed. While it is invasive -- it's even banned in Illinois -- I like it a lot. Lonicera maackii:


Speaking of gardening and gardens, I was in Chicago last week and had the opportunity to walk through Millennium Park. Lurie Gardens is beautiful.


I was with a Dutch friend who especially liked the tulips:


As we approached Jaume Plensa's Crowne Fountain, I thought maybe they had changed it. I liked the changing mural of flowers on the glass wall, but was a little disappointed that it wasn't what I expected.


Then, the picture changed:


How can you not smile at this? Even though it was cold, there were children splashing in the water. How can one resist laughing?


From Carl Sandburg's poem Chicago:

Hog Butcher for the World,
Tool maker, Stacker of Wheat,
Player with Railroads and the Nation's Freight Handler;
Stormy, husky, brawling,
City of the Big Shoulders:

Since I was with friends on their first trip to the US, we did the tourist-y thing and went to the top of the John Hancock building. I haven't done that since sometime in the 1970's. We also walked on the beach for awhile. Although they live on the Indian Ocean, my friends were amazed by Lake Michigan.

Come and show me another city with lifted head singing so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.

One last view of the City of Broad Shoulders.

Patterns

This is a photo from inside the Alhambra in Granada, Spain. As exquisite as this photo is, it pales in comparison to the real thing. Standing inside the Alhambra, the patterns are almost overwhelming to the eye. And yet, because it is a pattern -- ordered, not chaos -- there is a tranquility to the intricate patterned stone. I think patterns can be beautiful. This is one of the most beautiful patterns that I have seen.

This is another pattern that I find tranquil and mystic; a thing of beauty. Did you think it was a rose window at first? Look at it closely. It is a cross-section of dna.

I find the similarities in the patterns, the starbursts and curlicues, between these two fascinating. Stone carvers at the Alhambra in 12th century Spain, and glass makers in 13th century France creating rose windows used similar patterns. While the Gothic window builders may have been influenced by the Islamic architecture at Alhambra, neither would have known of the similar shapes in nature in the double-helix.

I suppose it has something to do with mathematics and pi, though I don't know enough about it to know what. I wonder though, if we don't find beauty in shapes that are replicated in nature, even if we are unaware of them, because it is something innate, in our dna, so to speak.

Here is a poem about patterns of a different type, patterns of evil and death that overshadow the beauty of patterns in the world.

Patterns, by Amy Lowell

I walk down the garden-paths,
And all the daffodils
Are blowing, and the bright blue squills.
I walk down the patterned garden-paths
In my stiff, brocaded gown.
With my powdered hair and jeweled fan,
I too am a rare
Pattern. As I wander down
The garden-paths.

My dress is richly figured,
And the train
Makes a pink and silver stain
On the gravel, and the thrift
Of the borders.
Just a plate of current fashion,
Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes.
Not a softness anywhere about me,
Only whalebone and brocade.
And I sink on a seat in the shade
Of a lime tree. For my passion
Wars against the stiff brocade.
The daffodils and squills
Flutter in the breeze
As they please.
And I weep;
For the lime-tree is in blossom
And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom.

And the splashing of waterdrops
In the marble fountain
Comes down the garden-paths.
The dripping never stops.
Underneath my stiffened gown
Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin,
A basin in the midst of hedges grown
So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding,
But she guesses he is near,
And the sliding of the water
Seems the stroking of a dear
Hand upon her.
What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown!
I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground.
All the pink and silver crumpled up on the ground.

I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths,
And he would stumble after,
Bewildered by my laughter.
I should see the sun flashing from his sword-hilt and the buckles on his shoes.
I would choose
To lead him in a maze along the patterned paths,
A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover.
Till he caught me in the shade,
And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me,
Aching, melting, unafraid.
With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops,
And the plopping of the waterdrops,
All about us in the open afternoon--
I am very like to swoon
With the weight of this brocade,
For the sun sifts through the shade.

Underneath the fallen blossom
In my bosom,
Is a letter I have hid.
It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke.
"Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell
Died in action Thursday se'nnight."
As I read it in the white, morning sunlight,
The letters squirmed like snakes.
"Any answer, Madam," said my footman.
"No," I told him.
"See that the messenger takes some refreshment.
No, no answer."
And I walked into the garden,
Up and down the patterned paths,
In my stiff, correct brocade.
The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun,
Each one.
I stood upright too,
Held rigid to the pattern
By the stiffness of my gown.
Up and down I walked,
Up and down.

In a month he would have been my husband.
In a month, here, underneath this lime,
We would have broke the pattern;
He for me, and I for him,
He as Colonel, I as Lady,
On this shady seat.
He had a whim
That sunlight carried blessing.
And I answered, "It shall be as you have said."
Now he is dead.

In Summer and in Winter I shall walk
Up and down
The patterned garden-paths
In my stiff, brocaded gown.
The squills and daffodils
Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow.
I shall go
Up and down
In my gown.
Gorgeously arrayed,
Boned and stayed.
And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace
By each button, hook, and lace.
For the man who should loose me is dead,
Fighting with the Duke in Flanders,
In a pattern called a war.
Christ! What are patterns for?

-- Amy Lowell

Fireworks

Indianapolis boasts of the largest Children's Museum in the world. While this is true, I find no value in its size; I dislike self-reported claims of being the biggest, tallest, largest anything, because these terms have nothing to do with quality. But, the Children's Museum of Indianapolis is a worthwhile place, with great quality learning experiences for kids and their adult guides. It is a fantastic environment for children, one that presents learning experiences in a fun way.

Several years ago, when my son was in grade school, we went to an exhibit of Alexander Calder works at the Children's Museum. I loved this idea of bringing art to a place dedicated to children. Not only did Calder's whimsical works seem at home in the exhibit space, but the way in which the artist's work was presented -- on the level of a child and in a hands-on way -- was outstanding. The words "Hands-on" and "art" used together may frighten a curator with visions of chocolate and peanut-butter hand prints leaving greasy marks on once priceless, now ruined canvas. But hands-on for this exhibit meant activities like jumping under a mobile to generate air currents to set the sculpture in motion, or being given the materials to make one's own mobile inspired by Calder's work. Over the years other exhibits dealing with art have been at the museum. A few years ago, for example, there was an exhibit of Norman Rockwell paintings and his Saturday Evening Post magazine covers. Incorporating child's play with art is something that isn't done often enough.

Then, last year, the museum did something else: the installation of a 43-foot glass sculpture by Dale Chihuly in the main staircase of the museum. The sculpture, Fireworks of Glass is playful. It is composed of thousands of pieces of primary-colored glass curlicues. It sits upon a glass ceiling.

I visited the museum recently and saw Fireworks of Glass for the first time. This was not the first Chihuly exhibit I had seen; in fact, I've seen several previously. While his glass chandeliers that I have seen (like this one at the V&A in London) are composed of translucent glass that catch the light, the sculpture at the Childrens' Museum is made up of opaque pieces of glass. The pieces of glass seem to swirl around the main column, as if caught in a vortex by tornadic winds. The tower is capped by a starburst. Looking at it from either the top or bottom floors of the museum, it does resemble a fireworks explosion, suspending in air, just before the burning embers tumble towards the ground and disappear as they cool. The tower is in the middle of an enormous staircase -- a ramp system actually -- that takes the visitor to each of the 5 floors of the museum. The piece seems to fit so perfectly in the space, you would think that the ramp was designed around the sculpture. Despite all of the times that I have been to the Children's Museum over the years, I cannot tell you anything about the central staircase before the glass tower was added. The sculpture not only fills the space, but it defines it as well.

Visitors to the museum can sit under the sculpture, on the basement floor, and look upwards through the glass ceiling to the sculpture. The museum is currently featuring a short movie about the artist and there are hands-on exhibits for children to learn about the art of glassmaking. Very cool. There is even a rotating bench that you can sit upon, reclining slightly, to look up through the ceiling at the sculpture and the lights sparkling off of it. When I was last at the museum, I was there for a benefit. Dressed in formal wear, I couldn't bring myself to recline on the bench and look up at the tower. Nor did I see anyone else doing that. An evening dress and heels are not exactly conducive to rotating reclining benches. Plus, I wasn't certain that I would have been able to return to a vertical position after sitting on that bench -- at least not in any sort of graceful manner.

Later I realized how sad this was that we didn't say 'screw decorum', sit upon the bench and gaze up in child-like wonder. After all, isn't art suppose to spur you to think and to feel? Ah, apparently only if you let it take its full effect.

Musing about Museums...and a poem inspired by an artistic muse

A few days ago Bloglily wrote a wonderful travelogue about the Getty Museum. I commented on her blog that I felt like I had visited two museums that day -- her virtual tour of the Getty and my in-person tour of an Cezanne to Picasso: Ambroise Vollard, Patron of the Avant Guard exhibit at the Art Institute of Chicago. (see here for info on the exhibit).

I agree with BL that museums can be tiring. I love going to museums, but I've learned that I enjoy them more if I go with the intent of only seeing a few things. That is why I only saw the exhibit at the AIC, although I have to admit that had the Chagall windows, one of my favorites at the AIC, been in place, I would have had to sit for a few minutes in front of them. They are in storage now during renovations and won't be back for several more months. It is jarring walking by where they have been for years and not seeing them.


When looking at the permanent collection in a museum, I like to let the art just wash over me. You can't do that with too many works; it causes one to shut down in a defensive move against emotional overload. But, when I go to an exhibit, I like to listen to the audio presentation and read the exhibit notes. I find the background information interesting. I like to understand the curator's point of view, to learn what informs the exhibit, what are the unifying forces in the collection, whether it be a certain theme, a particular artistic movement, a cultural or political movement. I was a little disappointed in the audio tour for this particular exhibit. I felt that it was really dumbed down and did little to indicate why these particular works were illustrative of Vollard's choices and subsequent influence on the modern art world. Why did he choose to promote certain artists? Were his choices based on his taste or was he just pragmatic? For the works that he chose not to represent, but were later considered masterpieces, why did he not choose them initially? The exhibit didn't explore these questions to my satisfaction and I thought that the audio tour made the assumption that the listener only wanted sound bits, not additional information. Nevertheless, I did enjoy looking at some of the amazing works of art in the exhibit. To think that one man was lucky enough to have had all of those works pass through his hands is amazing. I wish I could have understood more though about his choices.


One of the topics in the exhibit was Vollard's commissioning of lithographs and illustrated manuscripts. I could spend time walking through an exhibit focused on just these items. One of the series of lithographs that caught my attention and held me entranced for several minutes was by Maurice Denis. Called Amour, it is a series of lithographs that Denis considered a visual love poem. The lithographs were beautiful, but I was also captivated by the titles of each piece. I thought they made a poem themselves. The image at the top of this post is one of the lithographs, the one below was the cover for the series. What follows is a poem I wrote based on the titles. It wasn't my intent when I started, but I think that the speaker in my poem has a more cynical attitude than the attitude Denis portrayed in his visual poem.



L'Amour
We all know the allegory
of easy attitudes,
chaste as morning bouquets
with the scent of tears like dewdrops,
with a faith in mysteries of knights
who do not die on crusades
in the twilight of soft old paintings.
She was morning beautiful,
more beautiful than dreams,
a caress of her hands languorous
gestures touching your soul.

Her hands, reaching across the table
holding an empty tea cup of love.
Too soon life becomes precious.
Too late we discover the many bouquets
of tears have chased the liquid-silver light,
sitting on a pale silver sofa,
a painted dream of floral chintz against wallpaper
and slanting walls of fading night.

We are too restrained once we learn
the heart beats too fast towards the end of day.



If you're interested, here are the titles of the works in Denis' series: Allegory; Attitudes are easy, and chaste; The morning bouquet, tears; It was a religious mystery; The knight did not die on the crusades; Twilights have the softness of old paintings; She was more beautiful than dreams; And it is the caress of her hands; Our souls, with languorous gestures; On the pale silver sofa; Life becomes precious, retrained; But it is the heart which beats too fast.

Why we read and write and love

This evening, I went to hear a lecture given by Helen Fisher, Professor of Anthropology at Rutgers and author of several books on the science of why people fall in love. Her latest book, Why We Love: The Nature and Chemistry of Romantic Love details her research into physiological changes in the brains of people in love as revealed by MRIs. Her work is fascinating and I'm sure that I couldn't do it justice summarizing here. If interested in details, go to her website, click on the 'more' link at the end of the first paragraph, and scroll down for a Q&A that summarizes the lecture I heard.

One of the things that interested me apart from her findings was an aside about literature. After making several references to authors and their works, Dr. Fisher commented that while other anthropologists may study pottery shards, she thought that poetry was a worthy object for the study of how people behave when infatuated, newly in love, in a life-long love relationship, or in pain over rejection and loss. She didn't quote at length from any particular work, but did recite a few lines from various poems and mentioned that she saw the world's oldest love letter (on a cuneiform-inscribed pot) in Turkey. She promised she would recite the world's "most beautiful love poem" in class tomorrow. I'm a little jealous of the students who get to hear that. She didn't give a title but said that it was native Alaskan poetry.

Poets, she said, for centuries have bled for lost love. How true. To capture a human emotion common to all humanity's experience -- love, rage, fear, sadness, joy, awe -- isn't that the objective of literature? It's why we write. And why we read.

A little surprise, a bit about reading, words, and poetry

Lots of different ideas scurrying around my brain today.

First:
I don't like Tennyson. I loathed reading him in high school. I hated having to memorize "The Charge of the Light Brigade". Although I understood what the teacher meant by admonishing us to not read the poem "sing song", I couldn't understand how that was possible with this poem. Blah to the left of them! Blah! to the right of them! Blah! Blah! Droned the six hundred! Or at least it seemed as if we endured 600 students slogging through reciting this, although even in my big city high school I doubt my English class had more than 30 - 35 students.

I thought "The Lady of Shallot" was a bit better, but only because I loved Arthurian legends. I re-read it in college after seeing Waterhouse's gorgeous painting in the Tate. The painting set me on a brief course of discovering everything I could about the Pre-Raphelite Brotherhood, an interest that both amuses and puzzles me now and will never serve any useful purpose unless it's a category on Jeopardy! while I was an contestant. Still, I didn't care much for the poem.

So, imagine my surprise recently when I stumbled across this, from a wax cylinder recording of Tennyson reading "The Charge of the Light Brigade". Knocked me off my feet.

Wasn't Light Brigade written during the Crimean War? When was sound recording invented? Tennyson was still alive then?

Actually, the poem is about an event in the Crimean War, published in 1855; Edison invented the first sound recording device in 1877 and the Graphophone was patented in 1885; Tennyson died in 1892. This recording was done around 1890. Although the recording is very scratchy, and the softly spoken parts are almost inaudible, I don't think I'll ever read this poem and hear it read in that 'sing-song' teenage voice again. The Poetry Archive has other historical readings by poets. Fascinating!

Onto a different topic:

In my bookclub this evening someone asked whether one could say he had read a book if they had listened to the audio version? I would say 'yes', and pointed out that we "read" books with our kids even if we are the ones reading and they listen. It is a reading experience regardless of whether you are the reader or the one being read to. We talk about poets 'reading' their work, which is very different than when we read of poem. What about Braille books? The blind would say that they 'read' a book, wouldn't they? What do you think? If you were counting the number of books read in a year, would you include a book on tape? Are we splitting hairs to say that one should only claim to have listened to a book if he or she was not actually engaged in the physical act of making sense out of the ink shapes on the page?

Topic 3:
I found the WordNerd Podcast today. I only listened briefly to a few snippets from old casts (they'll air new shows beginning this Saturday following a summer hiatus). Based on what I heard and scrolling through the related blog, I think this seems really neat! The site has a forum feature as well, with discussions about all things wordy, not necessarily just the ideas on the weekly cast. Anything called WordNerds must be great for people like me who are, well, you know, Nerds about Words. I think I'll download their podcast -- once I get my ipod reconfigured after loosing the hard drive earlier this summer. Alas! I'm a bigger nerd with words than with some technologies!

Postscript: How funny! Blogger's spellchecker wants to change "WordNerd" to "ordinary". I've never met an ordinary Word Nerd in my life!

Art is Everywhere

I love this quote. Or is the banner a work of art? Either way:



When found in a place like in the photo (Academia Bridge, Grand Canal, Venice, photo taken standing at the Guggenheim), it's easy to equate beauty with art and to see beauty all around.

When listening to the morning news, it's too easy to focus on what is not beauty, grace, art.

Look around in your world today....and be grateful. In gratitude, find joy.

I don't know anything about the artist, Patrick Mimran. Here is a link to his website.

Worth a 6 year -- or 26 year -- wait? L'Orangerie

The last time I was in Paris was in May 2000. I had previously tried to see the Monet Nympheas murals installed on the curved wall of the L'Orangerie 20 years earlier, but didn't make it to the museum before it closed on my last day. So I had wanted to see them on that trip 20 years later. One morning, I set out for L'Orangerie, but was disappointed to find on arrival that the museum had closed a few days earlier for remodeling. Little did I know that the next time I would be in Paris would be only a few months after the building reopened after numerous complications and delays in the remodeling.

Fast forward 6 years. This time I had only a few hours layover in Paris and was with my son who had never been to Paris. On a day so hot you didn't want to do anything, especially if it involved taking a subway, we went several places at his request: l'arc de triomph, Eiffel tower, wandered near the fountains at Trocedarro, rested our weary feet at a sidewalk cafe, saw Napolean's tomb -- and with only a few minutes left, rushed to L'Orangerie at my insistence just before they closed the doors.

The building is washed in light: bright white walls, a roof of skylights letting in the sun, reflecting off the curved walls at the entrance. You cross an open walkway giving view to the floor below and enter the first room. You are greeted by more curved white walls, an antechamber that may -- or may not -- exist for future exhibitions. You wonder what waits beyond the next doorway as you process through the figure-eight hallway of rooms, considering whether the smooth curves leading to the paintings isn't some sort of architectural hyperbole, an attempt to build up expectation for the murals installed on the curved walls beyond. But, entering the first room with the paintings, I dare anyone not to gasp!

Ahhh! The giant Nympheas murals are overwhelming! Simply framed, one on each stark white wall, your eyes dart from one explosion of color to another. Each is of waterlillies, but so different from the others that it is difficult to believe at first that they are of the same subjects. Looking at the paintings I could understand what Monet was attempting to do with light. Waterlillies in the morning, at dusk, under the hot summer sun, late in the season just before the final blooms fade.

Each painting is too big to have only one focal point, yet the various parts of the lengthy murals do not seem to compete for viewing, but to gently guide your eyes from one part to another. While it's true that the air-conditioned building would have been a respite from a blistering hot day even if there was nothing on the walls, sitting in the rooms looking at the Monets seemed to naturally cool you.

I don't know that I have the vocabulary to describe the murals adequately in artistic terms. I will post pictures later after I return home and hope that those can at least give a hint of the magnificence of these paintings. I can say that I am sure that if I had made it to L'Orangerie in May, 1980, or if it had not been closed yet in May, 2000, I would have seen an entirely different set of artwork. It is hard to believe that these paintings were cloistered for years in a building with a second floor without any natural light. Harder still to believe that the building was reconstructed around the works without bringing any harm to them.

Was it worth the wait? I think so. I'd suggest to anyone visiting Paris that you make the effort to see these --even if you only have a brief 6 hour layover.

2 Kinds of Art, 2 kinds of People

When I started reading blogs a few short dog years ago (I think the leaves were just starting to turn....) one of the first blogs I started reading was Terry Teachout's About Last Night. Originally, I was looking for theatre suggestions for an upcoming trip to NYC, but I've become a regular reader. How could I not be intrigued by a site that had this quote in the 'About...' section:

Clement Greenberg, the great art critic, believed that "in the long run there are only two kinds of art: the good and the bad. This difference cuts across all other differences in art. At the same time, it makes all art one…The experience of art is the same in kind or order despite all differences in works of art themselves."

and that endeavors to be

...a meeting place in cyberspace for arts lovers who are curious, adventurous, and unafraid of the unfamiliar.

A few days ago, Teachout posted a rerun of his Teachout Cultural Concurrence Index. A not too serious 'test' -- not of one's arts knowledge but of one's art likings, as compared to Teachout. Check out this link or this one for the original explanation. Well, I'm always behind the curve -- apparently a year on this one, but I took the 'test' anyway. Below are my answers, with a few explanations.

Bear in mind my favorite "2 types of people" joke is this one:

There are 10 types of people in this world: those that get binary, and those that don't.

Yeah, I'm a geek. I have no defense. But I strive to balance all of the technical stuff that consumes my worklife with the arts in whatever form I find them. And the arts are everywhere!

So, just for fun and to give you a little idea of what I'm like, here are my responses, with a few explanations, to the Teachout Cultural Concurrence Index. I didn't really expect a strong concurrence with TT, so I was surprised by my score of 60. What does this mean? Not much, but it was fun!

1. Fred Astaire or Gene Kelly? Gene Kelley. I always thought he looked like he was having more fun!
2. The Great Gatsby or The Sun Also Rises? Gatsby. Frances made this comment about Gatsby recently on LitLove's blog: "imagine that empty, hungover feeling you have at 7am the morning after a May Ball, that exquisite blend of a longing having been fulfilled and sadness now that your goal‚’s been taken away, and made into a book, that’s it." I couldn't have captured the essence of that book half as well.
3. Count Basie or Duke Ellington? Count Basie.
4. Cats or dogs? DOGS!
5. Matisse or Picasso? Matisse. A tough call, but Matisse surprises me more and seems to engage all of my senses. Sometimes I imagine I can actually smell a Matisse, but maybe that's because I've harbored a little green-eyed envy for 30 years that a high school chum actually got to touch a Matisse once while working stage crew. I think it was this backdrop.
6. Yeats or Eliot? Yeats. "In a Station of the Metro" is probably the poem that most frequently flutters through my brain, usually when I walk through a crowd but sometimes without any prompting, so if it were Eliot or Pound, I might have answered Pound. Still, Yeats is the best.
7. Buster Keaton or Charlie Chaplin? Buster Keaton, because he doesn't have the cynicism of Chaplin.
8. Flannery O’Connor or John Updike? O'Connor
9. To Have and Have Not or Casablanca? To Have and Have Not, although I've probably watched Casablanca more.
10. Jackson Pollock or Willem de Kooning? Pollock, by a splash.
11. The Who or the Stones? The Who. As I was growing up, the Stones were frequently stopped by my mother's demands to turn off the radio, but The Who somehow creeped in undetected. Still, I was never allowed to see Tommy when it was in the theatres.
12. Philip Larkin or Sylvia Plath? Plath. Plath was one of the first poets who affected me; if I encountered both for the first time with an adult sensibility, Larkin might win. Maybe I should revisit him.
13. Trollope or Dickens Can't answer, never read Trollope.
14. Billie Holiday or Ella Fitzgerald? Ella Fitzgerald.
15. Dostoevsky or Tolstoy? Tolstoy.
16. The Moviegoer or The End of the Affair? The End of the affair (never finished reading The Moviegoer).
17. George Balanchine or Martha Graham? Balanchine.
18. Hot dogs or hamburgers? Hamburgers, except in Chicago!
19. Letterman or Leno? Letterman -- he eeks out a victory on this one only by about 10 million laughs. He was making me laugh when he was doing the weather on the local Indianapolis station back in the 70's.
20. Wilco or Cat Power? ???
21. Verdi or Wagner? Verdi more than any other operatic composer; almost all of them more than Wagner.
22. Grace Kelly or Marilyn Monroe? Grace Kelly.
23. Bill Monroe or Johnny Cash? Cash. The man had a mystique. Loved Monroe's Bean Blossom festivals though.
24. Kingsley or Martin Amis? Can't answer.
25. Robert Mitchum or Marlon Brando? Mitchum.
26. Mark Morris or Twyla Tharp? Can't answer. Unfamiliar with Morris.
27. Vermeer or Rembrandt? Vermeer. If I lived in NY, I'd want to stop in the Frick weekly to see or this picture or this one.
28. Tchaikovsky or Chopin? Tchaikovsky.
29. Red wine or white? Red. Keep whites in the wine rack for people I don't like as much (just joking....maybe).
30. Noel Coward or Oscar Wilde? Wilde.
31. Grosse Pointe Blank or High Fidelity? High Fidelity.
32. Shostakovich or Prokofiev? Shostakovich.
33. Mikhail Baryshnikov or Rudolf Nureyev? Baryshnikov.
34. Constable or Turner? Constable, by a brushstroke.
35. The Searchers or Rio Bravo? Can't answer.
36. Comedy or tragedy? Comedy.
37. Fall or spring? Spring.
38. Manet or Monet? Monet.
39. The Sopranos or The Simpsons? Oh, come on...do I have to answer this? The Simpsons, but only because I'll watch it with my teenage son and it makes him laugh, which makes me realize that he understands the difference between sarcasm and satire and that reminds me just how smart he is.
40. Rodgers and Hart or Gershwin and Gershwin? Gershwin.
41. Joseph Conrad or Henry James? Conrad, no James, no Conrad.
42. Sunset or sunrise? Sunset. Don't see sunrises often unless I'm going to work early and then they aren't enjoyable.
43. Johnny Mercer or Cole Porter? Porter, maybe?
44. Mac or PC? Mac if choosing for cool and useful, aesthetically pleasing, great marketing (once again), proving both FORM and FUNCTION are possible in technology. But what makes sense in my work life, the kid's school life, etc: sadly, the PC.
45. New York or Los Angeles? New York. Is this even a question?
46. Partisan Review or Horizon? can't answer.
47. Stax or Motown? can't answer. Don't know Stax.
48. Van Gogh or Gauguin? Van Gogh. THe VanGogh/Gauguin exhibit gave me a new appreciation of Gauguin, and made me realize how good Van Gogh was.
49. Steely Dan or Elvis Costello? Steely Dan. Maybe just because "Hey, Nineteen" reminds me of a boy, except he was too old to be a boy, and I was, well, just 19.
50. Reading a blog or reading a magazine? Blogs. I like the diversity of editorial content, rather than one editorial perspective that would be found in a magazine.
51. John Gielgud or Laurence Olivier? Gielgud
52. Only the Lonely or Songs for Swingin’ Lovers? can't answer.
53. Chinatown or Bonnie and Clyde? Chinatown.
54. Ghost World or Election? can't answer.
55. Minimalism or conceptual art? Minimalism (I think).
56. Daffy Duck or Bugs Bunny? "Eh, What's up doc?"
57. Modernism or postmodernism? Modernism.
58. Batman or Spider-Man? Jeepers creepers. Batman.
59. Emmylou Harris or Lucinda Williams? Emmylou.
60. Johnson or Boswell? Johnson.
61. Jane Austen or Virginia Woolf? Austen, although I don't really like either of them.
62. The Honeymooners or The Dick Van Dyke Show? Dick Van Dyke.
63. An Eames chair or a Noguchi table? Eames.
64. Out of the Past or Double Indemnity? Can't answer (don't know Out of the Past.)
65. The Marriage of Figaro or Don Giovanni? Figaro. The three duets in the final act is the most beautiful piece of operatic music ever written.
66. Blue or green? Sky Blue, Navy Blue, Ocean Blue, Blue eyes. Just blue!
67. A Midsummer Night’s Dream or As You Like It? Midsummer Night's Dream. Even a poor performance of Midsummer Night's Dream can be magical.
68. Ballet or opera? Opera.
69. Film or live theater? Film.
70. Acoustic or electric? Acoustic.
71. North by Northwest or Vertigo? Vertigo.
72. Sargent or Whistler? Whistler.
73. V.S. Naipaul or Milan Kundera? can't answer.
74. The Music Man or Oklahoma? The Music Man.
75. Sushi, yes or no? YES!
76. The New Yorker under Ross or Shawn? can't answer.
77. Tennessee Williams or Edward Albee? Williams.
78. The Portrait of a Lady or The Wings of the Dove? can't answer. Haven't read Portrait of a Lady.
79. Paul Taylor or Merce Cunningham? can't answer.
80. Frank Lloyd Wright or Mies van der Rohe? Wright.
81. Diana Krall or Norah Jones? Krall.
82. Watercolor or pastel? Watercolor.
83. Bus or subway? Subway. I'm a midwesterner -- subways have the aura of the unusual. If I had to depend on one for daily transportation, I would probably eventually come to prefer buses where I could see the world at street level.
84. Stravinsky or Schoenberg? Stravinsky.
85. Crunchy or smooth peanut butter? NEITHER. Peanut butter is gross! In a "eat it or starve to death" situation, would want to have crunchy over smooth. But I wouldn't eat it unless the situation was desparate.
86. Willa Cather or Theodore Dreiser? Cather.
87. Schubert or Mozart? Mozart.
88. The Fifties or the Twenties? Fifties.
89. Huckleberry Finn or Moby-Dick? Huck.
90. Thomas Mann or James Joyce? Mann.
91. Lester Young or Coleman Hawkins? can't answer.
92. Emily Dickinson or Walt Whitman? Dickinson.
93. Abraham Lincoln or Winston Churchill? Lincoln.
94. Liz Phair or Aimee Mann? can't answer.
95. Italian or French cooking? Italian.
96. Bach on piano or harpsichord? piano.
97. Anchovies, yes or no? NO! (allergic)
98. Short novels or long ones? short.
99. Swing or bebop? swing.
100. The Last Judgment or The Last Supper? The Last Judgment. Maybe The Last Supper would make me gasp like The Last Judgment did when I first saw it, but I'm doubtful.

Memorable Museum Moments

Perhaps this should be titled Memorable Art Moments, but all of these are in museums and I like the alliteration, so there.

In thinking about my upcoming vacation and the opportunities to go to some great museums I don't have ready access to (oh, too many choices...) I found myself reminiscing about art experiences I've had. Those kicked-in-the-gut, will-never-forget moments where I can remember not just the work of art, but the surroundings -- the sounds, the lighting, the physical presence of the gallery, the smells; in short, the "complete" experience, experiences so powerful that I hope they are imprinted forever on my brain so that I don't forget them.

Impression Sunrise at Musee Marmottan Monet. Whenever anyone asks me for recommendations in Paris, I can't help but say 'if you only go to one museum, go to the Marmottan'. I'm sure many would disagree with me -- and I don't know that you can go wrong with any of the museums in Paris -- but Musee Marmottan Monet, a small museum tucked away in a Parisian neighborhood that houses several of Monet's larger scaled waterlillies as well as a large collection of works by Manet and Berth Morisot, is my favorite. I was wandering through the galleries when I came across Impression Sunrise. I knew of the work, but didn't know it was in this museum. It was a surprising find. It is small and unassuming. And yet, you only need to glance at it for a short time to know why the title of this work gave name to an entire movement in art. One can only imagine how people looked at this and knew that something very different was happening with Monet and the other painters at the first Impressionist Exhibition. I can picture not only the painting but exactly where it was hanging when I last saw it. I'm sure I could walk right to it if I were there today.

The Brancusi sculptures at MOMA: Positioned between two galleries, a grouping of Brancusi sculptures rest on their pedestals on a raised platform. You can walk around to view the grouping on 3 sides. (I think these are the works: Bird in Space, Blond Negresse II, The Cock, Young Bird, Endless Column) Individually, each sculpture is beautiful, majestic, and demands your eye. As a whole they are like flowers wild in a field: simple, elegant, a landscape. What I wanted to do was to have the gallery to myself so I could walk up to each and touch it, to feel the difference in temperatures between the brass, the wood, the marble. Or lie down on the floor in front of them and gaze at them uninterrupted.

The Seagram Murals at The Tate Modern: I had only a passing knowledge of Rothko and knew nothing about these paintings when I first encountered them in 2001. They hang in a room by themselves between two larger, brightly lit galleries. The walls are grey, the lights dim. Maybe it is because the lights are dim and the walls darkened, but this room just feels cooler than the rest of the museum. If you sit on the bench and study the murals they seem to both fade into the wall and to jump out apart from it, background and painting moving in and out of focus, complimenting each other, blending together, and separating each other. I have sat in front of these paintings on each return visit since I first saw them. The murals are jarringly emotional. It was only as I was leaving the room on that first visit that I read the story of these paintings: After returning his commission and refusing to have the paintings displayed at The Four Seasons in the Seagram building, Rothko gave them to the Tate on the condition that they be displayed according to his design and with instructions that they be displayed apart from other works. With ironic timing, they arrived at the Tate the day that the news of Rothko's suicide was announced. This quote has been attributed to Rothko: "I am not an abstract painter. I am not interested in the relationship between form and colour. The only thing I care about is the expression of man's basic emotions: tragedy, ecstasy, destiny." These paintings are more than just black and red painted canvas on grey walls, they are bold emotion hanging on a wall. It's a safe bet that I'll spend at least a few minutes in front of these on my next trip to London.

Calder, Indianapolis Children's Museum. There wasn't just one piece of art in this exhibit that was memorable -- it was the entire exhibit. This exhibit was about 10 years ago. It was interesting that it wasn't in an 'art' museum, but a Children's Museum (local bias aside, this is a great children's museum, for both kids and adults). I remember my son, who was about seven years old, and me standing under one of Calder's mobiles. Following the instructions posted we jumped up & down and flapped our arms like whooping cranes doing a mating dance. Why? To create just enough air turbulence to make the mobile start to move. Kinetic! What a great experience. What a great way to introduce kids to art by getting them to interact with it and to have fun.

Whenever I return to a museum I'm conflicted whether I want it to be just the same as the last time I was there, with my favorites in the places I expect, or if I want them to have changed. There's always a little apprehension that I may look at a work and think "Why did I like that?" Of course, I've changed so I should expect my reaction to a work of art to have changed too. Still, one's initial reactions are those that tend to stay with you, as if they too were changed by the experience. I came across this quote recently that sums this up well: "When art is made, we are made new with it." (John Russell).

Links:
The Guardian on The Seagram Murals

Brancusi at MOMA

Musee Marmottan Monet

Film Review: Sketches of Frank Gehry

Within the first minutes of the documentary Sketches of Frank Gehry, the viewer knows two things: Frank Gehry isn't your father's Oldsmobile kind of a architect, and this documentary doesn't pretend to be objective.

This is the first documentary that Academy Award winning director Sidney Pollack (1985 Out of Africa) has made. In the opening scenes he states that he doesn't know how to make a documentary but Frank Gehry, his long-time friend, asked him to make it anyway because he wasn't a critic. The only thing he understands, Pollack says, is that like Gehry, he has had to make compromises in his work, balancing the creative with the commercial.

This film gives the viewer insight into a small part of Gehry's life and a large part of his creative process. Much of the biographical aspect involves Gehry answering questions posed by Pollack. What you learn about him is selective, what Gehry & the filmmaker find relevant to unveiling who Frank Gehry the architect is: the art lessons as a child, the immigration from Canada as a teen, the anti-semitism experienced, a name change (from Goldberg, at the demands of an ex-wife), the success with 'conventional' architecture that left him unhappy and creatively stifled. This material is appropriate, not so much as to overload or bore, and keeps this film more about the art, and less about the artist's biography.

Several people are interviewed in the film, discussing Gehry, his buildings, and his creative process: Gehry's psychologist Milton Wexler talks about how he has worked with Gehry for 35 years on creativity; rock star Bob Geldof talks about the Wow! Factor of seeing his first Gehry building (the Vitra Design Museum in Basel, Switzerland); a journalist emphasizes how Bilbao residents now proudly claim Gehry's Guggenheim Museum Bilbao as their own; former Disney CEO Michael Eisner discusses the commissioning of two Gehry buildings: The Anaheim Ice Rink and the home of the Los Angeles Philharmonic, the Disney Concert Hall; the renown architect, the late Philip Johnson, describes Gehry as artist/sculptor/architect, calling him as the 'world's greatest living architect' (a label that many may have applied to Johnson before his death last year).

The only person interviewed who is not a fan of Gehry's is Princeton professor and post-modern art critic Hal Foster. However, Pollack doesn't give Foster much screen time and his comments seem edited to the point of caricature. It is here that the critical viewer needs to remember Gehry & Pollack's words at the opening: they are friends, and Pollack knows nothing about architecture or documentary film. If Gehry's work is so 'edgy'(which it is), and controversial (which it cannot help but be if it is so edgy), there must be criticism.

Granted, a reputed 1.4 million visitors came to Bilbao in the first year to see what may be Gehry's crowning masterpiece, but did they all like it? I agree that it elicits gasps. Just show a photograph -- something that can only pretend to capture the sweeping curves of that unusual space flowing into the river -- to someone unfamiliar with the Guggenheim Bilbao and prepare to be surprised if you do not get a reaction. But, those gasps may not all be 'fall-on-your-knees-and-catch-your-breath' admiring. Expect a few "WTF's". Want a reaction from someone in person? As you ride down Michigan Ave or Columbus Drive, point to the Jay Pritzker Pavilion and BP Bridge and innocently ask a Chicago cabbie "What is that?" (as I did a few years ago as it was being built). Your reactions will vary. (Repeatable in LA, Prague, Bilbao, etc.)

I definitely fall into the "Gasp in Amazement" category and would go to Bilbao to see the Guggenheim building and might stop in to see the artwork too if I had the time (just joking), but I wouldn't believe that everybody would like it. You just can't look at a Gehry building and not have an opinion. I think Pollack's film would have been so much better if it had included some honest criticism, especially since Gehry says that he tries on the negative reviews 'like clothes, to see if they fit'.

Still, despite it's bias, this is an interesting film and I would recommend it not only to art and architecture buffs, but anyone willing to look at a building or the creative process in a different way. Gehry's buildings can soar against the skyline in a mesmerizing way and Pollack's filming tries to capture that. The scenes with Gehry's partners and clients also give a welcomed look into a collaborative creative process.

(82 minutes, rated PG-13 for some occasional use of the 'f' word and probably the Eisner's comparison of the Anaheim rink to lopsided breasts).

A few other links:
Scroll down to the 23-05-04 entry for a photo of the Anaheim Ice rink that makes interesting use of light and shadow.

Here is a discussion at arcspace.com of Disney Concert Hall. Includes interior and exterior photos.

See why Rotten Tomatoes gives this film a 79% "Freshness" rating.

Expressions of Sadness & Secrets on the Web

Onepotmeal had a link yesterday to The Saddest Thing I Own. Contributors submit a photograph and a written explanation about the saddest object they own. Some of the items seem benign, but the narratives can be gut-wretching; tales of lost loves, lost lives, and haunting memories.

Scrolling through the site, I couldn't help but think of similarities to PostSecret, where contributors submit a piece of art on a postcard to reveal a secret. And, yet, for the last day I've been trying to figure out why these sites have a different emotional impact on me. A few posts on The Saddest Thing brought me close to tears, yet I felt like I was rubbernecking at a car wreck. Real life a little too upclose and personal.

Not every secret on PostSecret is traumatic, though many are. Some are witty, some fun, some titillating -- but not necessarily sad. Like The Saddest Thing, the artist is anonymously sharing an emotional experience with the reader. Perhaps it is the limitations of the format that forces the creator to judiciously choose words and images that makes the experience more profound. Maybe it is the catharsis of PostSecret: no matter how horrendous the secret, there seems to be a healing in the revelation the postcard art contains.

I don't find that yet in the first posts in The Saddest Thing. It just seems sad.

NippleJesus and Rock Music: A Reading by Nick Hornby

Top 5 Reasons Why Attending A Nick Hornby reading is great: Nah--too easy!

Hornby was at Local Liberal Arts U as part of it's Visiting Writers' Series. I was unfamiliar with Hornby's writing, although I had seen High Fidelity (watched late one night on cable, mainly because I've been crushing on John Cusak since seeing The Sure Thing in the early 80's). I was pleasantly surprised by the reading.

Hornby read the short story NippleJesus. Just like the title, and the art exhibit it refers to, the story makes one titter at the offensive, and smile drolly at the beautiful. It is a story of opposites: the burly but pensive, sensitive bouncer; the religious fanatics who are sacrilegious; the artist who is both kind and cruel; what art is -- and what it isn't. It asks the question: if art is meant to provoke and to evoke everyman -- why the hell can it be so pretentious?

Other readings included two of Hornby's music essays. While I was never much into the punk scene, I certainly understood Hornby's account of privileged youth 'slumming' in the punk culture. And his brief essay about his rock idols in his teenage years -- as he warned the mostly college-aged crowd, a time when it was cool to dig Rod Stewart -- was right on target.

Hornby finished up with excerpts from A Long Way Down, his 2005 novel about four people who meet when each decides to commit suicide. While it sounds like a gruesome tale, you couldn't help but laugh as Hornby read. Along with Speaking with the Angel, the anthology that includes "NippleJesus", this book is now perched atop my TBR pile. As I paid my tab for the books, I noticed another work title The Polysyllabic Spree, a collection of 14 of Hornby's columns about what he was reading -- or buying to read. Now, that sounds like my hobby.....

PS:
- Hornby stayed for over 2 hrs signing autographs. He was gracious, congenial and accommodating.
- 2 points to the ingenious Missy: lacking funds for non-school books, she had Hornby sign a DVD with the Hi-Fidelity label.
- A portion of proceeds from the sale of Speaking with the Angel goes to support Autism education in the US & UK.